He Killed Me First

He glided into a memory whose ghost I shall always reflect upon. Em Yếu Anh.

 

 

Like me, most women hold their hearts in hand.

We push aside darkness to find the light,

remembering days when our cloudless eyes

rushed across the sky and its azure height.

 

With handfuls of dreams and surrendered stars,

we love with excess and infinite grace.

Then, wounded and scarred by iniquity,

we hide in the mask that covers our face.

 

I met him when I was just twenty-three,

unraveled in cycles of depression,

while dealing with my father’s suicide

and the quicksilver weight of oppression.

 

My heart was galvanized by shards of ice.

The sunlight dissolved and fell from the sky.

I packed the best of me and left the rest,

indiscernible and destined to die.

 

When he burned into my life like a star,

he became a bridge of impulsive wings.

I crossed his heart, as he flew into mine,

as a shadow that spills its offerings.

 

When I ran to him, I was running from me,

from the garden that was filled with my needs

and the monuments of pain and regret

that life had erected among the weeds.

 

I burrowed my heart in his soaring embrace

and penciled the past in lines of his smile

and buried the ghost of the girl in me

that had been aching for such a long while.

 

He let me believe in whirlwinds of lies,

in the dervish that danced on his lips,

in orchards of perfume and dainty silks,

and webs that he spun from his fingertips.

 

But nothing remains hidden forever.

The abstract becomes concrete in the end,

and silks burn in the fire of Dante’s pyre

and whirlwinds fade with the leave of the wind.

 

I don’t remember how it all started.

It crept through the window by slow degrees:

a furtive glance here and a harsh word there

or a judgement that was meant as a tease.

 

It culminated on the brink of madness.

At four in the morning, he crossed the line.

I could smell the alcohol on his breath,

and it turned my stomach into rapine.

 

He had his hands all over my body.

I kept pleading for him to let me sleep;

but he crawled like spiders all over me,

making me feel so disgusted and cheap.

 

"Get your damned hands off me!" I screamed at him

and pushed against him to push him away.

He balled up his fist and punched me at once,

and stars exploded at breaking of day.

 

He busted the blood vessels in my eye,

and the bruise was like ink under skin.

It bled like violets soaked in the rain,

pressed between layers to shrivel within.

 

He wanted to hold me, love, console me,

said that it would never happen again;

but I pulled apart and undreamed the dreams,

tucking them neatly in the back of my brain.

 

I was so broken and shattered inside.

My self-confidence had gone on retreat.

I was a shadow, unloved, unwanted,

a leftover remnant of vile defeat.

 

He found me in a moment of weakness,

when the mirror was broken to pieces;

and I felt lucky to be loved at all

with my wings folded in at the creases.

 

You see … life for me was never easy.

The portents lived in my blood and my bones;

and when everything is made of glass,

it’s easy to break it by hurling stones.

 

For three years, I lived outside of myself.

The numbness stripped my solicitude;

and I was a half-me, a no-me: dead,

a specter that haunted my solitude.

 

And I cannot count the numberless ways

that he reduced my being to ashes

and pummeled my world with heartache and pain

between the boomerang and backlashes.

 

It was a late night in February.

The leafless branches pointed to the moon,

and I asked him to leave so I could sleep

as the morning would be arriving soon.

 

He diddled and prattled, refused to leave.

I just couldn’t take it anymore.

"You have to go; I need to sleep," I said,

as I stood there holding open the door.

 

He stood up and pushed me against the wall.

With his fist back and rising in the air,

he screamed at me, "Do you love me or not?"

I knew he would hit me but did not care.

 

It was the final nail in my coffin.

He had already killed me deep inside;

and I gathered the strength to tell him, "No!"

feeling at once that I should have complied.

 

Something in my eyes must have destroyed him.

He could not control me, and I was free.

"That’s it," he said; and then he turned to leave.

I’d broken the chains that wrapped around me.

 

The next day he was apologetic,

and I cried as I listened to him speak.

I wasn’t mad at him; I was mad at me

for being so stupid, helpless, and weak.

 

The memories rolled in like a fog bank:

the cruelty, the jealousy, and all;

the cold steel blade through the back of the door

that I had slammed shut to escape its fall;

 

his stalking and staring through my window;

the time he tried to run my car off the road;

the cursing and drinking; the kicked-in doors;

the threats that sent me into overload;

 

the moments when I held my breath in fear;

the phone calls in the middle of the night;

the way he’d talk with his besotted slur;

how I was always wrong, and he was right.

 

I swore it would never happen to me

having watched it happen to my mother.

I was wrong. I couldn’t have been more wrong!

We were mirror images of each other.

 

Both of us were broken and never healed

like the weakened spine of a worn out book,

and the years of estrangement built a wall

within which we found our own special nook.

 

There was just enough good to offset bad

to make me forgive him and make me stay,

to wrap my arms around the boy in him

whose father was absent and walked away.

 

The dust in his life was much like my own;

and in looking back, I could clearly see:

as my mother and father could not love,

I was living a life not loving me.

 

I did not think I deserved any better.

I lived between lines unable to see

that nothing had to be the way it was

and that I could write my own destiny.

 

It was over; we went separate ways.

All of the leaves fell from our book of hours.

The bridge was burned under an ashen moon

whose filaments fell among the flowers.

 

I had tilted my head to view the sky,

savoring the scent of the rain-washed pines,

when the telephone broke my reverie

and the unexpected news crossed the lines.

 

He had gone out that morning for a swim

in rhythmic waters of the Sông Sài Gon,

and he glided into a memory

whose ghost I shall always reflect upon.

 

The river mistress whispered in his ear,

her fingers floating through his silken hair;

and she kissed him until his lips turned blue.

The life in his eyes was no longer there.

 

He rippled along her passionate waves

and lay his head upon her gentle breast.

She carried him into the afterlife,

unfolding his wings where he came to rest.

 

They found his body with the morning rise

where the river emptied into the sea

like a cradle against the river bank

rocking back and forth ever so gently.

 

Her firstborn belongs to the world of night,

slumbering deep in the palm of the earth;

and she peels back the layers of sadness

wandering far from the land of her birth.

 

I looked at the photographs and letters,

the artwork and the table that he made;

and I ached for the life that had ended,

for all the potential that he let fade.

 

He never believed he was good enough.

He was left behind as a soldier’s son,

as I was abandoned by suicide.

We were both casualties of the gun.

 

I cannot hate him; for, he was broken.

I guess he did the best with what he had.

As I think back on all the could-have-beens,

I can’t help but to feel a little sad.

 

He killed me first, but only in spirit.

I rose like a phoenix from the ashes

while he drifted into the blue abyss

as the Sông Sài Gon covered his lashes.

 

 

 

Author's Note

This poem is dedicated to the memory of Đứng Tiến Ngữyen. While visiting Vietnam with his mother, he drowned in the Saigon River. His father was an American soldier, stationed in Vietnam during the war. When the troops left Vietnam, he left Đứng and his mother behind. The Viet Cong would go through the villages killing anyone that had helped the Americans. While she had kept his father’s identification, she had to destroy it to avoid being caught. Đứng’s mother dyed his hair black in order to make him appear 100% Vietnamese. Even then, however, she had dug a hole in the ground of her hut, over which she kept a rug, and would hide him within it in order to protect him.

By the time she left Vietnam, she had three children, two sons and a daughter. Since she could only carry two in her arms, she left the daughter behind.

Đứng was always deeply affected by the war, having to leave his homeland, and having never known his father. I think that’s what drew me to him in the first place, the fact that neither of us had any memories of our father. As children, however, I think you never feel whole when you are missing that other piece of your life.

Đứng was very artistic. He loved to sing and write songs. He was poetic and loved to draw. He was also very good with his hands. I still own a table that he made by hand. He cut each piece of wood with a handsaw, and it’s just amazing. It’s as perfect today as the day he made it. I actually have the smaller of the two tables that he made. He gave me the one, while he kept the other, stating, “As long as we have these two tables, we’ll be together.” Eventually, he sold his table to get money for alcohol. Only death will separate me from mine.

When I learned of his death, I absolutely fell apart. It didn’t matter that we hadn’t been together or seen each other in about ten years. To me, he had a life worth living; and I just feel so sad because I never feel like he got a fair shake in life. Unfortunately, he could never put the broken pieces of himself together so that he felt whole and worthy, loved and loveable. I empathize because I was the same. There are still times when I feel that way albeit brief.

I hope that he has finally found peace.

Em Yếu Anh

Reviews

[David Lewis Paget]

This is truly an epic, Linda Marie. I was torn at first regarding whether it was fiction or true life. The reference to Saigon indicated fiction, but your end note confuted that. As it unfolded, it became clear that this was a tale of two fragile entities, each of which contained the seeds of self-destruction due to the negative experiences each had endured from before. It was not a surprise, therefore, that the relationship failed. The stalking aspect seems to be a feature of life today, and technology has made that so much easier for the stalker. He obviously left karmic scars on your soul, otherwise the space of ten years separation would have been enough to dull the sudden loss.
You dug deep to tear this grief from your id, and display it to the world. The writing of it must have been not only painful, but also brought some relief. Good work.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Actually, believe it or not, it wasn't painful at all. There have been enough years of distance to remedy that. If there's any pain, it's just over the fact that I think he died way too young, without having overcome the obstacles in his path, to the point where he could have a fruitful and happy life. Too many dreams die unfulfilled in this life, and that's a tragedy for us all. :-)

[Rick Puetter]

A stunning piece. Raw emotion, full of life. Mistakes, wrong turns, and hard, but necessary corrections. Yes life is not easy. There are no signs that say "this way to happiness". And there are dead ends from which there is no exit without immeasurable pain.

I am impressed. There are so many amazing stanzas. It was an honor to read this piece. Wonderful work. Very highest marks--a 98%. I hope you know what that means from me.

I am touched by your pain and how you navigated through such difficult times.

Very best regards!

Rick

[Anand Sehgal]

With handfuls of dreams and surrendered stars,

we love with excess and infinite grace.

Then, wounded and scarred by iniquity,

we hide in the mask that covers our face.
great write that speaks of reality .

[icelandicblue]

We, all of us are broken in some way, it is a matter of degrees and this one is deep, wide and shattered. I am moved by the flow of your story told in beautiful words that lead to death and destruction. We do not know where we will go when we have never been given the choice:
Her firstborn belongs to the world of night,
slumbering deep in the palm of the earth;
and she peels back the layers of sadness
wandering far from the land of her birth.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Yes, we are all broken in one way or another. It seems our society is unraveling by the day with all the brokenness in the world. What's important is to ascertain and appreciate our own brokenness while being aware that others are broken as well.

[Pete Langley]

I am amazed and full of admiration. To maintain poetic integrity throughout is one thing, but to produce such a powerfully emotive piece while still carrying the reader with you through the trauma of the narrative is not just moving, but brilliant. I hope the writing of this proved cathartic for you, Em Yeu Anh. P.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you, Pete. I don't know about cathartic, but it's just been aching to be written for a while. I had no idea that it would wind up being the length that it is. It's literally eight poems in one, which took away valuable time that I wanted to devote to writing other things. This one just needed to be breathed into being. Thank you for staying with me on the journey. I know it couldn't have been easy.

[Claire Lorraine]

Only someone who has lived through the horrifying pain and deadness caused by abuse can know how to relate it well.
I am in awe of how you conveyed the harsh truth of reality with the swirling inner turbulence and the clarity that comes only with time and healing.
I must admit reading this was very hard for me because it caused me to recall images, feelings and pain from my past. But that is the mark of the most excellent writing - it reminds us, it makes us feel, it is poignant.
I love how there is forgiveness and compassion for the abuser as the woman rises from a victim into a survivor and hopefully someday, into one who thrives; her inner life one of peace, love, hope and joy.
This poem is magnificent.

[Ken Simm.]

This is an incredible, sensitive, layered, epic of words and love. Real love that passes through vissitudes and doesn't always come out the other side, or continue the journey unscathed or untouched. This shows the scars that linger deep and the plural occasions that interact through personal history.
This was filmic in its story telling and yet not documentary in style. for that alone it is a wonderous achievement. It is a humbling write that manages both to sadden and yet at the same time uplift. And obviously cost a lot to write. Remarkable is too small a word.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Ken,

First, let me thank you for your ability to finish reading the poem. It is indeed epic in length; and when I started, I had no idea that it would wind up as long as it is. I started, thinking it would be short and sweet; but as happens with every poem, it determined what it should be. I started writing, and my heart just bled. I had no intention of spending three days on one poem, but here it is.

While autobiographical, the poem is meant to reflect how we are all, each and every one of us, broken in some fashion; and until we mend ourselves, we'll never be made whole. All relationships will end in defeat. For women, this can have really awful consequences.

Thank you again. I know that most people prefer the quick poems so they can just check in and check out, and I appreciate your willingness to spend a little more time with me.